


Scentsational

by OfficialStarsandGutters



Series: To the Moon and Back: Werewolf Mickey [1]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-29
Updated: 2017-03-29
Packaged: 2018-10-12 18:07:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,248
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10496622
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OfficialStarsandGutters/pseuds/OfficialStarsandGutters
Summary: Prompt: SOFT WEREWOLF MICKEY PLS-“Pretty cold, these nights. You doin' alright out here on your own?”The dog regards him steadily with those cool blue eyes, and Ian takes that as a yes.“You wanna come in?”





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [seazu](https://archiveofourown.org/users/seazu/gifts).



It's 5:34am when Ian steps out into the crisp chill of the Chicago fall. He rubs his hands together as he walks down to the gate, the cold already seeping into his fingers. It's still dark out, but Ian has enough light from the street lamps to guide his run. He's got a morning shift and he likes to have his run in before he starts; before he eats or takes his meds. He's always too tired once he gets back after work.

He doesn't bother with a warm up walk, because he needs to be moving, like now, before the cold can seep into the rest of his body. They're approaching the end of fall now and Ian knows the snow will be starting soon, and it will be a lot easier for him to find excuses to stay in bed on mornings like this. He likes running; it gets him out of the house and lets him clear his head, spend some time on his own; a luxury he doesn't often get. Just tryna drag his ass out of his warm bed is the hard part.

He's been running for about ten minutes when the large shadow of an animal suddenly darts in front of him. Ian automatically springs out of the way, but his heart thunders double time in his chest at the shock of it. He inhales sharply, his running pattern lost. The animal comes to a halt and Ian realises it's a large dog. The dog turns to look at him, sniffing the air between them, and Ian is frozen.

Beneath the yellow glow of the street lamps, the creature does not look like any dog he's seen. It looks like a wolf. A big, black wolf with piercing blue eyes that have Ian frozen in place. He glances around for a weapon, but there's nothing in reach. He wonders, if the wolf-dog makes a leap for him, if he'd be able to kick it. If he catches with his toe beneath the jaw sharply, it should at least be enough to shock the animal and send it sprawling back. Though Ian's not sure he could outrun it.

The wolf-dog pads closer on large paws, watching Ian inquisitively. There is no obvious sign of aggression; no raised hackles or bared teeth, and Ian wonders if perhaps it is domesticated. Maybe it's one of those mixed breeds that just look like wolves. He crouches and offers a hand, because he's watched The Dog Whisperer a few times and thinks that's how you're supposed to introduce yourself. The dog pauses, considers the offering, and then gives his hand a good sniff. The press of its nose is cold and wet against Ian's knuckles.

“Hey, buddy,” Ian says; soft, quiet. His breath puffs in the air in front of him. The dog's ears twitch. “Whatcha doin' out here at this time, huh?”

The dog noses at his hand again, and while it is distracted, Ian checks around the neck for a collar. The dog stiffens beneath his touch, but allows it. The fur around its neck is thick, somehow soft and coarse at the same time. There's no collar to be found. Ian's fingers trail up to rub at its head, but he quickly removes his hand when he receives a rumbling growl.

“Alright, sorry.” Ian brushes off his hand, but the strong animal scent of the dog still clings to his fingers. “Well, I gotta get goin'. I hope you don't get too cold out here.”

When Ian starts to run, the dog follows. At first he thinks this is a chase, like he's being hunted. Panic rises in his chest as he has a startlingly realistic vision of the dog biting into the flesh of his calf, and Ian's feet pound the side walk hard as he picks up speed. A waste, really. The dog keeps pace with him easily, running along at his side. Ian relaxes a touch when after several minutes his leg is still, thankfully, free of teeth marks. He slows, panting hard from the increased effort.

The dog stays with him until he's almost home, before turning suddenly and darting off under the El.

*

The next time Ian sees him (he's decided the dog is a boy, even though he can't see his genitals through the thick black fur to be sure), he's coming back from a late shift. He comes down the steps from the El and is tiredly trailing his way home when a shape materialises from the shadows.

“You have got to stop doing that.”

A twitching of the ears is the only response he gets, and the dog falls into step beside him. He is tall enough to come to Ian's waist; which, with his lanky legs, is saying something. He absently scratches the dog's head without thinking and receives that little rumbling growl again.

“Shit, sorry. Forgot.”

The dog exhales through his nose; an annoyed sound that feels oddly human to Ian. He finds himself smiling without realising. Besides occasionally slipping away to sniff at a hedge or post or patch of ground, the dog stays by his side the whole way home.

“Well, this is me,” Ian says, nodding to the house. He circles around to the back. The dog follows him. “Look, I'm home now. See?”

The dog just looks at him with those piercing blue eyes and Ian doesn't know what he wants from him. He sighs, shrugging off his backpack as he steps into the kitchen.

“You hungry? Stay here, I'll see what we got.”

What they have is not a lot, but he does find a KFC bucket full of the leftover bones. Dogs like bones, right? He picks out the smaller bits so the dog won't choke on them, then brings the bucket out the back. The dog's head picks up immediately, nose twitching as he picks up the new smell. He crowds closer to Ian, bumping the bucket as he tries to get his nose into it.

“Alright, already. Jesus. Gimme a sec.” Ian barely has the bucket set down before the dog is upon it, hungrily snapping up one of the bones that still has a few pieces of chicken clinging to it. Ian watches him for a moment, before heading back into the kitchen to make himself a sandwich before bed.

It's after he's washed his plate and is getting ready to head upstairs, that he hears the whining. It's faint, muffled, and after a moment, accompanied by light scratching at the back door.

“I don't got anything else for you,” he calls, and turns out the light. Thinks the dog will get bored and slink off after a while.

He has a quick shower, and comes down in his boxers and tank to grab a glass of water before bed. The scratching has stopped, but he can still hear the low, persistent whining. Ian cracks the door open an inch to see the sad sight of the dog lying on their back porch. His front legs are folded and his head is resting on them miserably. Ian only catches brief sight of this, for he perks up when the door cracks open, jumping up and panting in anticipation as he looks at Ian.

“Go home,” Ian hisses. He's had a long shift and he's tired and he just wants the dog to stop guilting him with his whines. “I don't have anything else for you.”

The dog answers him with a grumbling growl, and Ian frowns.

“Fuck you, too, man. So much for gratitude.”

Still, he's gentle as he eases the door shut. Doesn't want any paws to get caught in it.

When he checks the back door the next day, there are claw marks in the wood from persistent scratching.

*

The thing is, the dog disappears for long stretches. It's like Ian's just starting to forget about him when he shows up again.

The next time, it's when Caleb's dropping him off outside his house. Caleb still hasn't been to stay the night (Ian is quite insistent on keeping his romantic life and family life apart, thank you), but had insisted on running Ian home before he went to work. Ian climbs out and grabs his bag, and Caleb gets out of the driver's side.

“What are you doin'?” Ian tries not to sound alarmed, but he doesn't want Caleb coming in. Caleb laughs at his panic.

“Just coming to kiss my boyfriend good night. Is that alright?”

Ian relaxes a bit. Caleb circles the car, then freezes.

“Shit.”

“What?”

“There's, uh... Looks like a fuckin' wolf behind you. Don't move!”

“Huh?” Ian looks over his shoulder to see the dog padding towards him. “Oh, him. Nah, he's fine. He's just a stray dog. I see him around sometimes.”

“Doesn't look like any dog I've ever seen.”

The dog noses at Ian's finger, sniffing his hand, then his jeans, and then his head turns towards Caleb.

“He's fine,” Ian insists.

Caleb starts to come over to him again, when suddenly a rumbling sound fills the air between them. Ian instantly recognises it as the dog's growl. He's stepped forward, placing himself between Ian and Caleb. It's the first time Ian has seen him look aggressive. His hackles are raises and his teeth are bared, lips pulled back enough that the pink of his gums are visible, a little line of saliva dripping from the side of his mouth.

“Hey! Hey, boy, c'mon.” Ian tries to calm him, but he doesn't take his eyes from Caleb. “He's never done this before.”

Caleb slowly backs away, and the dog follows him, circling around the side of the car, his rumbling growl persistent until Caleb is once again in his car and has closed the door behind him. Only then does he pad back to Ian, looking up at him, panting and seeming quite satisfied. His tail even twitches a few times, though Ian's not sure he'd quite call that a wag.

“Sorry about that,” Ian says, leaning in the passenger side window. “I'll talk to you tomorrow though, yeah?”

He leans in to kiss Caleb but the dog gets an oddly gentle, but quite firm, hold of his trouser leg and insistently tugs until he has to pull his head out of the car to scowl down at him.

“What is up with you?”

The dog answers with his usual rumbling growl, and Ian huffs in annoyance.

“Ian, I've got to get to work. I'll call you tomorrow.”

Ian steps back as Caleb drives off, and the dog stands by his side. He gives a soft, sharp exhale through his nose as the car disappears around the corner, and Ian shoots him the Gallagher Bitchface™.

“Maybe I should start calling you Cockblock.”

The dog grumbles at him again.

“I don't have any food for you tonight.”

Ian's words don't put the dog off following him around to the back of the house, where he tosses his bag down and sits on the porch steps, fishing out a packet of cigarettes.

“I saw what you did to the back door, you know. That was uncalled for.”

The dog just stares back at him with those cool, blue eyes.

“And is it like a dominance challenge when you're staring like that? 'Cause really, you can drop that shit with me.” Ian stares back hard at the dog as he lights up his cigarette. He holds the stares as he takes a drag. He keeps staring as he exhales. Fuck, his eyes are starting to dry up by the time the dog finally tips his head, just a fraction of an inch. His eyes briefly dip, before they're back on Ian again. “Guess that makes you my bitch, now.”

This time he gets shown the slightly yellowing teeth, sharp and a little bigger than Ian was anticipating. He waves a hand at the dog, aiming his smoke exhalation away from him.

“Yeah, yeah. You don't scare me.”

The dog exhales through his nose again; a sound Ian is taking as a huff of irritation. He laughs when, a few moments later, the dog sits on the step beneath him and rests his head on Ian's lap. Ian gives his head an idle rub, and for once he doesn't get growled at.

*

Ian's in almost the exact same spot the next time the dog shows up. He's got a beer bottle in one hand, and a joint in the other. He sighs as the dog pads across the yard to nose around the hand holding the bottle. Ian sets it down so he can have his usual sniff, a surprised smile blossoming across his face when the dog nuzzles against his palm, silently requesting a head rub. Ian obliges, realising that's the first genuine smile he's had in days.

“You were right about Caleb,” he says softly, and when the dog looks at him with a tilted head, he elaborates: “My boyfriend.”

Immediately the dog tenses and growls, and Ian is, as always, impressed at how intelligent he seems to be.

“Well, ex now.” Ian stubs out his joint against the handrail and tosses it down into the dark. He sighs and runs both his hands through the soft-coarse fur of the dog's neck. “He slept with a woman. I dunno why that makes it feel worse. Y'know, like it would be less worse if he'd cheated with a guy? Which... Of fuckin' course it wouldn't, but then, he just acts like he's done nothing wrong. Like it doesn't count 'cause she's a woman. What the fuck, right?”

Ian sniffs. The dog puts his paw on the first step and leans forward to lick at Ian's face. Ian laughs, turning his head away so only his cheek is getting the brunt of it. Then (a little drunk, a little stoned), he wraps his arms around the dog's shoulder area and buries his face into his neck, breathing in the thick, heady animal scent. There's something extremely calming about it, and Ian feels himself settle. He's surprised the dog hasn't started growling yet. Even further surprised when the paw not on the step comes up to land heavily on his shoulder. Then the dog, honest to God, Ian shits you not, pats him a few times in a consoling manner.

Ian moves back a touch and gives him a watery smile.

“You're real, right? It's just. Sometimes you don't seem real.” He glances briefly at the scratched up back door. “But I guess that's proof, right?”

The dog just licks his cheek again.

“Pretty cold, these nights. You doin' alright out here on your own?”

The dog regards him steadily with those cool blue eyes, and Ian takes that as a yes.

“You wanna come in?” He asks it so softly it's barely audible. He feels stupid to have asked it at all, but he doesn't want to be alone any more. Tomorrow's the first day off work he's had since the whole incident with Caleb, and he's afraid he's going to have too much time to _think._ Any distraction is welcome.

The dog seems to understand what he's asking, because he's immediately leaping over Ian and standing by the door. Looking back at him expectantly. Ian laughs, a quiet, gentle sound, and opens the back door. The dog pads in, head in the air as he sniffs and sniffs and sniffs. Ian supposes there must be a lot of smells for his sensitive nose to pick up. He leaves him to do a curious lap of the kitchen, grabbing another beer and going through to the living room. It's late; it's always late when he sees the dog, so everyone else is in bed. The dog sits by his feet and rests his head on Ian's lap as he flicks through the shitty late night TV options.

“I should really give you a name.”

The dog snuffles at him, tilting his head, though he may just be leaning into the touch of Ian's fingers.

“'Cause like, I always just think of you as _the dog,_ but I guess we're kinda on friendly terms now. Not sure I'm great with names, though. Hey, what about Shadow? 'Cause you're all black and you always scare the shit outta me the way you materialise outta them.”

The dog growls and shakes his head.

“Shit, no? You're gonna veto that? Alright, uhhh... What about Padfoot? 'Cause, like, there's this guy in Harry Potter-” Ian is interrupted by the dog shaking his head. “No but, listen! He was a wizard, right, but he could turn into a big black dog!”

Dogs can't really glare but Ian's pretty sure that's the expression he's going for all the same.

“Alright, Mr Smartypaws. You got any better ideas?”

The dog nods his head this time. Ian rubs a palm against his eye, wondering if he's pissed already, or if his meds are slipping. Or, y'know, maybe he's really having a fuckin' conversation with a dog that looks like a wolf that not only understands him, but seems capable of communicating back. Shit. He could probably go viral if he took this shit to YouTube.

“Too bad you can't tell me.”

The dog sits back, head tilted at a thoughtful angle. Then he bounces forward and starts nosing around Ian's hips. Ian yelps in surprise, trying to wriggle away from the sudden, insistent sniffing, but a strong paw on his thigh keeps him in place. He watches as the dog noses at the pockets of his sweats. His nose hits the bump of Ian's phone and he looks up imploringly, bumping it a few times with his nose until Ian gets the hint and takes it out. He unlocks it when the dog keeps staring at him, then holds it out, showing him the home screen. The dog bumps his wet nose clumsily against it, trying to open the notes.

“Holy shit,” Ian whispers, then: “Wait, stop, I'll get it. Though, your nose is pretty big. I dunno how successful this is going to be.”

The dog huffs his irritation in that nose exhale way of his.

“Alright.” Ian shrugs and holds out his phone; open on a new note, with the keypad up. The dog noses at it several times, sometimes struggling to hit a letter at all.

“Nuxit,” Ian reads when he's done. “What kind of name is that?”

The dog huffs again and shakes his head, coming forward for a second attempt.

“This is gross, you know. You're getting your wet nose smeared all over my screen.”

He's answered with a growl, and Ian gives his own drawn out sigh in response.

“Nid- I don't even know how to say this one,” Ian says, looking at the typed word _Nidkt._ Nicky pops up as the autocorrect suggest. “Oh, shit wait, is it Nicky?”

The dog's tail wags even though he shakes his head. He gives a little bark of encouragement, and Ian has to wave a shushing hand at him.

“Shh shh, quiet, my family's asleep. Wait, so is it Nicky or not?” The dog shakes his head. “But it's close to Nicky?”

The dog nods.

“Nick? Uhh. Oh, wait, Mickey?”

The dog, _Mickey,_ nods enthusiastically, his tongue spilling happily out of his mouth as his tail wags. He gives Ian's hand a few licks. Ian laughs and rubs his head.

“What kind of name is Mickey for a dog, eh? I think I preferred Nuxit.” The dog grumbles a bit, but his tail keeps wagging as Ian scratches behind his ear. “Mickey. Alright. Good boy, Mickey.”

Ian abandons his second beer near the bottom; the mixture of meds, alcohol, and weed in his system leaving him sleepy and heavy limbed. It's not long before he's slumping down into the couch cushions. He doesn't feel like climbing the stairs to bed, so after a while he just stretches along the couch. It's not particularly wide, but if he lies on his side there's just enough room for Mickey to lie along the front of him. Which is what happens when he starts trying to crawl up.

Ian's too hazy to fight with him. He just rolls onto his side and wriggles back to give him space, letting his arm lay across Mickey's body once he's settled, and nuzzling closer to his neck so he can breathe in the heady scent of him. He smiles without realising it, feeling like the storm that's been blowing inside him the past few days has finally calmed.

“Hey, if you're a stray maybe I can keep you, hm? You wanna stay here?” Mickey grumbles; quiet and sleepy, and Ian's not sure if that's agreement or not, but he decides he's going to take it as such. “Alright. You and me, buddy.”

Then he's asleep; the heat from Mickey's body keeping him warm through the night.

*

Ian wakes to the cold the next morning, and Mickey is gone. He does a lap of the house, but there's no sign of him. The doors are both closed, and Ian can't find anywhere he would have escaped from.

Shit, maybe he is imagining things.

But when he checks his phone there's still a few big, blotchy smudges from a wet dog nose, and _Nicky_ is saved in his notes. He tugs the material of his hoody up and breathes deep. It still holds the heady animal scent.

Ian pulls his trainers on and heads out on his run in the hopes he'll see Mickey, but he finds no sign of him.

*

“Where've you been, eh?”

Mickey's waiting outside the front door when Ian steps out for his morning run. Well, barely morning. He's on early shifts again, which means even earlier runs. He yawns widely as Mickey falls into step beside him. Even when Ian starts to run, he pads along, easily keeping pace.

“Okay, so you don't wanna stay. That's fair, I guess. You're a street dog. That's your thing. But you could at least visit more often,” Ian says. Mickey whines his apology. “That's alright. I'll forgive you. This time.”

Mickey stays with him to the end of his run, but lingers at the gate when they get back to the house.

“You gotta go?”

Mickey nods.

“So, what's your deal, eh? You turn into a cat at the break of dawn or something?”

Mickey growls at him and Ian laughs.

“Alright, tough guy. C'mere.” He crouches down and Mickey pads closer, allowing Ian to give him a good rub behind the ears. He licks Ian's cheek. They both linger for a moment when Ian stands again, just staring at each other. Mickey's tail wags lazily. Then he spins and bounds out of the gate and down the road.

*

Ian hates night shifts. They totally ruin his routine; his sleep pattern, his exercise pattern, his eating pattern. He hates them so much, but he doesn't wanna complain, doesn't wanna be _that guy_ who avoids the shitty shifts just 'cause he's bipolar. He promised himself and Rita that he wouldn't let his illness affect his working ability, so he's just gotta suck it up for a week.

He's so tired as he groggily wanders back inside that he steps on the edge of the box sitting by the door. The crinkle startles him, and he hops back, looking down to see what the fuck he's just stood on. It's a box. More specifically, it's a box of candy. To be super specific, it's a box of Valentine's chocolate candy. Ian can tell by the teeth indents at the side of the box who has left it there.

“You're a bit late,” he mumbles to no one, but smiles as he takes the box inside. It's a shame he can't tell anyone about Mickey at the risk of sounding like he's slipping, 'cause Sue would fuckin' love this.

He's beginning to understand crazy cat ladies and the sort, now. He's beginning to understand the weirdos that refer to their pets as their babies. He's beginning to understand, because there is a love blossoming in him for that scruffy, smelly wolf-mutt. Something pure and powerful and that he has no choice in, the kind of way he loves his siblings; instinctive, automatic. Ian would take him in without a second thought now. Would give up what little spare cash he has left after paying rent and bills to Fiona and putting some in his savings, on dog food, on toys, on leads and collars and fuckin' dog shampoo, though he's not sure he'd ever be able to wrestle Mickey into a bath.

“Hey,” Fiona's sitting at the kitchen counter when he walks in. While Ian's just back from a long shift, she's only just getting ready to leave for the diner. “Work alright?”

“Yeah, we had a close call, but they pulled through.”

“That's good.”

“All good here?”

“Yeah, just tired. Didn't sleep well last night.”

“No?”

“Nah. Some dog outside whining. Went on and on all night.”

Ian doesn't need three guesses to know who that was.

“Yeah, well, I'm pretty tired too,” he says. “So I guess that makes two of us.”

“Get some sleep, kid.”

He does, but not before thinking of Mickey lying in wait for him through the night.

*

Ian's low the next time Mickey shows up. Even on his meds, even when he's balanced, he still rides the waves of his illness. It's like he's a rock in the ocean; sometimes the tide is low, and the sun is bright, and he feels nice and warm basked in the glow of it. Other times, the tide is covering him, and it feels suffocating. Mostly he resides somewhere in the middle. Right now, the tide is splashing at his head. The meds muffle it, but Ian still feels the effects; the tiredness, the dull ache that seems to ring through his entire body, and his increase in irritability. It's not enough to stop him functioning, not any more, but it's still draining.

He's gone to bed early, really just wanting an excuse to avoid people for a while, when he hears a loud thudding coming up the stairs. Heavy foot falls move up and down the hall, and he's tempted to put his pillow over his head and ignore whatever the fuck is going on in this chaos pit now, but then he hears the low whine. Ian shuffles across and opens his door. Mickey's sniffing around the bathroom door, but his head snaps up when Ian's door opens.

“How'd you-”

“Ian!” Debbie appears at the stop of the stairs, a touch breathless from having ran after the dog. “I heard a scratching at the back door and when I opened it he just bounded in.”

“It's alright, Debs. He's here for me.”

“For- ? Ian, that's a dog. Or maybe a wolf. He really looks like a wolf.”

“Yeah. He's like a stray. At least, I think he's a stray. We hang out sometimes. And I think he's just one of those mixed breeds that looks like a wolf.”

“Wait wait wait,” says Debbie. “Lemme get this straight. You hang out with dogs?”

“Nah, dog. Singular. He comes on runs with me, and sometimes I feed him. Ain't that right, Mickey?” Ian gives his head a rub and Mickey's tail thuds against the wall in the confined space of the hall.

“Right. Well. Fiona's gonna freak with you having that in the house.”

“Is she at Sean's?”

“Yeah.”

“Then she don't gotta know. C'mon, boy.” Ian turns back into his room, ignoring Debbie's questioning expression as Mickey follows him in and he closes the door behind him. Any trace of smile vanishes from his face and his shoulders slump once they're in. He leans back against the door, feeling his exhaustion hit again. Mickey watches him, whining gently. Ian crosses to the bed and flops on it. Mickey nudges at him with his nose and whines again.

“I'm alright,” Ian mumbles into the sheets. “Just tired.”

He shuffles over a bit. Since half the house has cleared out now, he's been sleeping in Lip's room with the double bed. It feels like a luxury after being trapped in that tiny fuckin' cot bed in the corner of their shared room for all the years after his limbs outgrew it. Mickey paces back and forth beside the bed, whining and looking at Ian like he's waiting for permission. Ian laughs and pats the bed beside him.

“You can come up. I don't care.”

Mickey doesn't leap, but crawls up with care, as if he's afraid of disturbing Ian. Ian wriggles himself back under the blanket and holds up the other side for Mickey. He belly crawls closer and lies beside Ian. Ian drapes the blanket over him, then closes any space so he can press his face into Mickey's fur and hold him closer. He's only in a tank and his boxers, and he can feel Mickey's hairs almost ticklish against his bare skin. Mickey turns his head and licks Ian's temple.

“Thanks for the chocolates. Sorry I wasn't there. Night shift.” The words are mumbled into Mickey's fur, and Ian's not sure if they mean anything to him, but knowing how clever he is, Ian's not sure he'd be surprised. Mickey just bumps his cold nose against Ian's forehead a few times before he yawns (his dog breath does _not_ smell good) and flops sideways, his back pressed against Ian's chest.

Ian's glad he seems to understand. Dogs are great. Dogs don't require forced smiles or tiring conversation or pretending. Dogs are fine with just hanging out in the quiet, just spending time together without any pressure. Man, dogs are a fuckin' gift. It's a travesty that they have shorter lifespans than humans when there is so much more goodness in them.

This is Ian's meandering thought pattern as he drifts off to sleep.

*

He wakes refreshed. His bed is still warm, the scent of Mickey lingering, but there's no dog in sight.

Ian would really like to know how he's managing the doors.

*

Ian can't stop laughing. Trevor is gripping him (or is he really clinging to Trevor?) to keep upright as they stumble home from their latest club outing. Ian's body is still warm from dancing. His skin still flush from the exertion. His ears still ring from the loudness of the music, and he's trying to hum along to one of the songs that was playing but he keeps getting it mixed up with Britney Spears, so he gives up and just starts a giggly rendition of Toxic. Trevor giggles along, trying to hush him.

“Ian, it's late.”

“So whaaaat? Doesn't matter 'round here, everyone used to noise. WITH THE TASTE OF YOUR LIPS I'M- Ahhhh Mickey! Hey boy!” Ian staggers forward and crouches to pet the dog that has appeared out of the Gallagher gate. His balance wobbles a bit, but Mickey moves forward to steady him. “What a good boy. I missed you.”

Ian rubs Mickey's neck with both hands, then nuzzles his face in there and holds him for a moment. He rests a hand lightly on Mickey's sturdy back to help him up. Mickey's not paying attention to him, though. His eyes are on Trevor.

“Who's this?” Trevor asks.

“This is my dog friend, Mickey. He shows up sometimes. I was gonna adopt him, but he doesn't like to stay too long. Hey, Mickey, this is my human friend, Trevor.” Mickey bares his teeth and rumbles a growl, prompting Ian to (loudly) whisper: “No it's okay he's just a friend.”

“You gonna adopt me, too?” Trevor raises his eyebrows. Ian laughs. “Promise I'll stay.”

“Maybe.”

Mickey's growl intensifies, and Ian hushes him with a pat on the head. He pours into the house with them, constantly putting himself between Ian and Trevor, his hackles raised. He only relaxes when Trevor goes to the bathroom, leaving them alone in Ian's bedroom.

“Hey, hey, he's just stayin' 'cause he's too drunk to drive, alright? But he's nice. A lot nicer than Caleb.” Mickey bears his teeth. Ian scratches behind his ear, mumbling: “Just friends.”

Mickey leaps onto the bed this time, once Ian and Trevor have gotten in, and purposefully tries to plant himself between the pair of them. He gives quite a lot of protest when Ian tries to move him, flopping onto his back and wriggling wildly to make space between them.

“Jesus, he really hates me,” Trevor says.

“He doesn't usually act up like this. C'mon, boy. C'mere. Mick. Come on, please.”

Eventually, Ian manages to lure Mickey onto his other side. He grumbles quite a bit, but eventually settles when Ian puts an arm over him. His body is still vibrating with a quiet growl, but Ian shushes him without fear, planting a drunken kiss against his snout. He falls quiet then, and Ian falls asleep sandwiched between Mickey and Trevor.

As usual, Mickey is gone when he wakes up, and so is the hoody he was wearing the night before.

*

The next time Mickey shows up, he sits quietly with Ian and watches the end of one of The Fast and Furious films with him, head on his lap. When Ian shifts to get up, he leads the way to the stairs. He noses open Ian's bedroom and goes in there to wait for him while Ian pisses and brushes his teeth. Ian presses the door closed when he steps in and clicks on the light, before peeling his shirt up and over his head. Mickey's head lifts from where he's lying on the bed, watching him.

“Hey, pervert. Stop staring.” Ian laughs and flicks his shirt at Mickey as he pulls off his sweats and boxers. Mickey twists his head enough that the shirt falls away from his ears and eyes, but he presses his nose further into it and sniffs at it. Ian shakes his head, but feels weird enough under the doggy stare that he turns his back while he quickly pulls on a tank and fresh underwear. When he turns back, Mickey's lying with his paws over his eyes. He lowers one slowly when Ian erupts in laughter.

“Funny,” he says, climbing across the bed and rubbing at Mickey's head. He peels the shirt away from him and flicks it off the bed to be dealt with later. “So what important doggy business do you have that you're out of here so quick every morning, eh? You got a job to be getting to?”

Mickey huffs through his nose at him. Ian grins and puts the blanket over them.

“Night, Mick.”

Mickey flops onto his side and Ian presses his face into the back of his neck as usual.

*

When he wakes, there's a warm body pressed against his front. Ian automatically curls closer to the heat, nuzzling into the person's neck, breathing them in. The heady animal scent is familiar, but it's mixed with a different smell. Ian sniffs again. The person stirs, their ass pressing back against him. Their very naked ass.

Ian's eyes flick open and he tries to retreat, but his arm is trapped beneath the stranger in his bed.

“What the fuck?”

The guy gives a little whine of protest, mumbles something sleepily. Ian kicks him sharply in the back of the leg.

“The fuck?” He turns his head to squint grumpily over his shoulder, and Ian instantly recognises Mickey Milkovich.

“Yeah. My question exactly.”

“Oh, fuck.” Mickey sits up abruptly. Then notices his nakedness and tugs the blanket firmly over his waist. He looks at Ian with open panic.

“How did you get in here?”

“I- Shit, I'm usually- I must have overslept.”

Ian understands all of those words individually, but thrown together, he just can't make sense of them.

“How did you get _in_ here?”

“I, uh.” He's never seen Mickey Milkovich stumble awkwardly like this before, and he's certainly never seen him blush the way he is now, flush crawling up over his cheeks. “I'm Mickey.”

“Yeah. I know. You live like two streets away.”

“No, but, I'm _Mickey._ ”

“You're not-” Wait. No. It can't be. It's gotta be a coincidence, the name. Ian's expression crumples. His jaw kind of slack, his forehead scrunched in confusion. “Are you tryna tell me you're a fuckin' dog?”

“A, uh, wolf, actually. And only one night a month,”

This has got to be a fuckin' joke.

“You're shitting me.”

“No.” Mickey squirms, obviously uncomfortable. “That's why I can never stay, and why you only see me on the full moon-”

“Shut the fuck up.” Mickey does, and Ian rubs a hand over his face. He's lost it. He's gone. That, or this is the weirdest dream ever. “You tryna tell me you're a werewolf?”

“Basically, yeah.”

“Fuck.”

“Yeah.”

Ian spreads his fingers, looks at Mickey through them. It... Makes an odd sense, actually. The long stretches between his visits. How much like a wolf he looks, how intelligent he is, the way he understands Ian. Mickey hesitantly raises his eyes from where they're focused on the blanket to look at Ian, and he wouldn't mistake those eyes anywhere.

“Fuck.” Ian shudders out a breath, feels his body shake with it.

“Look, I'm real fuckin' sorry, okay. I didn't mean to stay. I meant to leave, I always leave, I should leave-” Mickey starts to rise again.

“You're naked,” Ian mutters from where he's cradling his face in his hands. He feels Mickey sit again. He takes another shaky breath. “Tell me about it?”

“What?”

“There werewolf thing. Tell me about it.”

*

What Ian finds out is that the werewolf thing isn't transmitted by bites (“Not to me, anyway. I avoid bitin' just in case.”) but is something Mickey inherited, some kind of recessive gene that only gets passed to some members of the family. The genetic version of Russian Roulette. Ian guesses it's the same as Monica's bipolar and how he just happened to be the only one that was passed to. He tells Mickey about it, with an ease he never usually has when discussing his illness. Hey, what's bipolar in the face of werewolfism or whatever the fuck it's called?

Ian leaves Mickey some of his clothes to get dressed in and makes them breakfast; pancakes and bacon. Mickey comes tentatively down the steps and joins him at the table, where he lets Ian harass him with more questions. Ian learns that Mickey avoids his home when he changes, 'cause his father is the only other wolf, and while Mickey doesn't elaborate on the details, he makes it clear he doesn't want to be around him. Human or wolf.

“But it's worse when all the senses are heightened and I can fuckin' smell the stench of him and the aggression is rolling close to the surface.”

No, Mickey doesn't know any other werewolves beyond his dad. Yes, he can only transform at the full moon, and it's not voluntary, he automatically changes, then back to human at the break of dawn. Yeah, it hurts, but only for a few seconds, and it's mostly just burning and stretching as his body changes, nothing he can't handle, just exaggerated growing pains. Turning back is worse than turning into the wolf.

“I feel so fucked up,” Ian says, as Mickey's helping him with the dishes; washing while Ian dries, 'cause he doesn't know where things go. “Like, this is super cool, but I feel like my best friend died or somethin'.”

“What, so I can talk back now I ain't your best friend any more?” Ian hears a little strain in Mickey's voice, like maybe the question isn't as casual as he's pretending.

“Did you even consider me your friend?”

“Yeah, man. Course.”

“Why'd you never talk to me?”

“The fuck was I gonna say? 'Ey, Gallagher, I'm that wolf that hangs out with you once a month, you wanna get coffee?' You'd have thought I was fuckin' nuts, man.”

“Yeah. I guess.” Ian finds himself checking Mickey out as he dries, and then he feels weird about it, turning his head away sharply. “Fuck.”

“What?”

“It's just- Now you're human, you're _attractive,_ but it's weird, 'cause you're a dog.”

“Wolf. Werewolf.”

“Right, yeah, technicality.”

“No. That's- it's not like I turn into a fuckin' poodle. And anyway, I'm human more often than I'm canine.”

“Not to me,” Ian says softly.

Mickey sighs. His wet, soapy fingers brush Ian's when he hands across the last fork. Ian looks into those blue eyes.

“Oh, fuck it.” He tosses the fork back in the sink and closes the distance to kiss Mickey hard, slamming him back against the opposite counter. Mickey makes a soft sound of surprise against Ian's mouth, but then his tongue is pushing forward, and one of his wet hands is going for Ian's hair. The other leaves a wet patch on his shirt where it grips tight.

They don't detach as they make their way back upstairs, bumping into walls and the handrail and tripping over the washing basket. Mickey laughs as Ian stumbles back, trying to free his foot. He doesn't laugh when Ian heaves him up, hands beneath his thighs, and carries him into the bedroom that still smells like a mixture of human and wolf. He's dumped on Ian's bed and starts stripping his own (Ian's) clothes. Ian pulls his own shirt off before getting lube from the drawer. He forces Mickey's bare thighs apart and Mickey groans.

Ian catches his lips in a distraction kiss as he slides his first finger in.

“Fuck, you're tight,” Ian murmurs.

“Yeah, don't do this often,” Mickey admits. “Not really out.”

Ian bites at his shoulder and slides a second finger in, pressing slowly, curling them up to rub against Mickey's prostate. Mickey's toes curl and his back arches, a soft swear sliding from his lips. Ian presses open mouthed kisses along his throat as he slowly fucks him open with his fingers, scissoring them as much as he can, making sure Mickey is well stretched to accommodate him. He makes sure to brush his prostate repeatedly. By the time he's up to three fingers and working them in and out of Mickey with force and speed, Mickey is a panting, writhing mess beneath him.

“Fuck, Ian, I'm ready.” His hips rise when Ian pulls his fingers out, as if trying to follow them. Ian uses his clean hand and teeth to tear the condom open, rolling it on and slicking himself up. He glances at Mickey to find him watching with hungry eyes, and Ian can almost see the wolf hidden beneath human skin. Heat curls in his stomach.

Mickey rolls over and gets onto his hands and knees, presenting himself.

“Really?”

“I like this position, alright?”

There's a beat of silence before Ian just shrugs.

“This isn't beastiality, right?” he asks, as he slides the head of his cock down the crack of Mickey's ass, lining himself up.

“ _Gallagher_. As long as you don't fuck me when I've got four legs, you're good. This ain't some Beauty and the Beast shit.”

“Well, Belle never-”

“ _Ian._ ”

“Alright. Just wanted to be sure.”

Then Ian pushes in, and they groan simultaneously. It takes a good deal of self control to go slow; pressing into Mickey until Ian's hips are flush against his ass, and then just staying there. Giving Mickey time to adjust. It's only when he starts to wriggle back against Ian that he grips Mickey's hips, hard enough that his fingers leave little white indents where they're in contact, and starts to slide out of him. His thrusts are short to start with; slow, shallow. Then he gradually pulls out further, and starts pushing back in with more speed.

It's not long until he's fucking hard against Mickey, who is panting and moaning beneath him, practically growling at times. Thankfully, his human vocal chords mean any noises sound a world away from wolf Mickey's noises, so it's not as weird as it could be. The fact that the animalistic noises are strangely hot to Ian, every sound shooting straight to his cock, is still kinda weird. He doesn't question it.

As he gets closer, Ian plasters himself along Mickey's back, one arm curling around his chest. The other reaches for his cock, and Ian starts stroking it in time with his thrusts and he nips at Mickey's shoulders.

“'M close.”

“Yeah,” Mickey pants.

“Want you to come first. Want to feel your ass clenching around me. You gonna do that for me, Mickey?”

Mickey makes a keening noise, his head nodding.

“You gonna come for me, Mick?”

“Fuck, _Ian_.”

He does, just a few strokes later, and the feel of his ass clenching around Ian's cock is just as good as he thought it would be. He strokes Mickey through it, until he's too sensitive to touch. Then Ian rises back to his knees, grip tight on Mickey's hips once more as he fucks into him roughly. It's less than a minute before he's following him over.

Ian just about finds the strength to discard the condom and clean them up before he collapses into a panting, sweaty heap with Mickey, curled together to avoid the wet patch Mickey's come has left on the bed. He presses his nose to Mickey's hair as Mickey presses his to Ian's throat; breathes him in, the mixture of wolf and human scent.

That's how they fall asleep.

*

“Hey, so, like, when you're in your wolf form, are you still you? Is it just like you're in a different body?” Ian asks later, when they've woken from their post-sex nap.

“Ehhh. Kind of. It's the same but different.”

“Wow. That really cleared that up for me, thanks.”

“Shut up. It's like, I'm still me. I remember everything. I'm aware of what I'm doin', but, there's layers stripped away. Like logic and all that shit. I guess it's closer to the animal; more instinct.”

“So you knew you were comin' here?”

“Like, I was aware of where I was goin', and I guess why, and I remembered it afterwards. Knew it was a fuckin' stupid idea, too, but.” Mickey shrugs. “Wolf does what it wants.”

“And it wanted to come hang out with me?” Ian grins. “Awww.”

“Shut up.”

“Is that just 'cause I fed you?”

“Nah.”

“Then why?”

“Likes your scent.” Mickey says it casually, without thinking, but he blushes the moment he realises what he's blurted out.

“My scent?”

“Uh. Yeah. The way you smell? I dunno. It just... I caught whiff of it, that first night, and the wolf part of me just had to find out what it was. It's what attracted me here.”

“Has that happened before?”

Mickey shakes his head.

“So I just smell particularly good?”

“Shit if I know, man.” Mickey presses his face in against Ian's throat and breathes him in, and Ian feels the tenseness seep out of his shoulders. “If I gotta guess, it's probably some kinda wolf instinct. Like sniffin' out the ideal mate or somethin'.”

“You think I'm your ideal mate?”

“I just mean that we're sexually compatible.”

“Nah. You said mate. Oh, wait, is that why you were so pissy about Caleb and Trevor? Oh my god, it is, isn't it!”

“I was actually gonna piss on Trevor,” Mickey mumbles against Ian's throat, and Ian can tell from his tone he's a touch embarrassed. “But I didn't want to wet your bed.”

“How considerate. Wait, hey, don't wolves mate for life? I'm pretty sure I watched a documentary with Liam about wolves once, and I swear it said they mate for life.”

“Woah, Gallagher. It ain't like I imprinted on you or anything.”

Ian lifts his head to look down at Mickey with surprise. His lips parted and the first hints of amusement coming into his expression, 'cause no way, no way did Mickey just make a Twilight reference. Shit. That's too good.

“You've read Twilight!”

“Fuck off.” Mickey scowls. “I don't read shit.”

“Then you've _watched_ Twilight, and that's almost worse.”

“How is it worse? Less time, less effort-”

“You've watched the sparkly vampire movies!”

“So have you, apparently.”

“Yeah I've seen bits of them 'cause I have a younger sister who went through the whole Twilight craze. I mean, she criticised the shit out of it, but that didn't stop her havin' a poster of Robert Pattinson over her bed. Anyway, shit, you can't distract me from this.” Ian sits up, giddy with this new information, and Mickey makes a grumpy noise of protest as he's shifted from Ian's shoulder.

“I just like to check out werewolf representation in the media, alright.”

“You fuckin' _dork_. That is so cute.”

“And for the record, Twilight depicted us fuckin' awfully. All that imprintin' shit-”

“And yet, you've imprinted on me!”

“I ain't-”

“Aren't you glad that you didn't meet me when I was a kid?”

Mickey jumps for him then, and Ian laughs as he's wrestled down onto the bed. Mickey gets him in a headlock and rubs his knuckles hard into Ian's skull, but he's still grinning.

“I'm gonna start callin' you Jacob,” he wheezes.

“Fuck you, Gallagher.”

*

He doesn't even remember his hoody until he sees Mickey wearing it a few days later.

“You little shit.”


End file.
